But...I did go down to the banks of the Mississippi as a child and suck on a bottle. I was born in a hospital in a town on the banks of that river, a mere 20 or so miles from Hannibal, Missouri, right in the heart of Mark Twain country. Hell's bells, I used to go drinkin' with Sam Clemens, Huck Finn, Tom Sawyer and Jim, while ol' Becky Thatcher danced on the bar (that whole thing in the book about Tom and Becky and the cave -- it's accurate, but you gotta read it Freudianly). But that was in my college days, because I certainly wouldn't violate the laws about under-age drinking. Never will forget the night Sammy (we called SC either "Sammy" or, if we wanted to make him fightin' mad, "Clemmy") and us got drunk and "borrowed" a steamboat. We headed upriver -- Sam was fixin' to take me home by steamboat, 'cause I was "too damned pie-eyed, blind-horse drunk" (in Sam's opinion) to drive home and certainly too drunk to sing or play the calliope. Yeah,

I remember that magical night one summer, maybe it was the summer of '63, a very special time for me...no, couldn't have been '63 'cause I spent that summer at Fort Lostinthewoods...maybe it was '64 or '65...anyway, it was a magical night one summer when I took my ax down to the banks of the Mississippi and blew long and cool all night, just wailin' out my heart through the trumpet while the stars overhead listened, the mist risin' off the water like ghosts of past loves and hurt conjured up by the music, the skeeters liken to carry me off and the dogs howlin'...mighta been '66 or even '67, I guess. Anyway, I remember. Je me souviens.